Fool For You (Made for Love Book 4)

by R. C. Martin

  I make my way back into the living room, emptying the sack and putting in the first movie. I take a seat next to Geoff, handing him his ice cream and a spoon, and we both dig in. The film has barely begun before he’s distracted, his finger tracing the ink on my right thigh—my dream catcher. It starts just above my hip. The top circle, currently covered by my shorts, spans the width of the outside of my leg. Attached are three smaller circles that dangle a little ways below—all of the intricate crisscross detail done in black. Then, hanging from the smaller circles are the feathers, shaded dark teal, royal blue, and deep purple. The piece stops a few inches above my knee. My first of many tattoos, hidden away from the eyes of the world, only ever on display for those who claim to love me.

  “Think if I sleep with you tonight, this thing’ll catch my dreams? I swear, every time I close my eyes, he’s there.”

  “Oh, babe,” I murmur, setting aside my treat and wrapping my arms around him. He rests his head on my chest and I try and think of something to say. “Geoff—”

  “Don’t, okay? Just…just let me stay.”

  I nod before kissing the top of his head.

  “Of course. Stay as long as you’d like.”

  I remember the first time I laid eyes on Geoffrey Fink. Andrew had just opened Mountain Time Art Gallery, on the corner of Mountain and Mason, and I was anxious to find the time to sneak a peek at what they had to offer. I had just started my junior year at CSU, where I studied art history, and I knew I needed to be thinking about trying to line up an internship; but when I walked through that front door, I wasn’t thinking about school. I was thinking about art and the lovely collection that I was so pleased to find inside.

  A tall, blonde fellow, who looked very handsome in his navy blue suit, came up to me and asked me if he could help me with anything. I told him no, of course. I couldn’t afford a single piece in the entire gallery, but he didn’t turn his nose up at me. He wasn’t perturbed by my presence, knowing that I wouldn’t bring him a sale. Geoffrey was kind, introducing himself before pointing at the piece that had captured my attention. He spoke about the artist who had painted it, and we ended up talking for quite a few minutes. When another customer arrived, he excused himself to help them.

  Geoff was half the reason I came back. Every few weeks, for the duration of that fall semester, I would drop by to see what new pieces they had. It wasn’t until I met Reeve that I realized Geoffrey was gay. Reeve was in the gallery, trying to convince Geoff to go out for drinks after work. When I walked in, unintentionally interrupting their conversation, Reeve’s eyes lit up at the sight of me.

  “Is that Freckles?” he asked, pointing at me.

  My face flushed, wondering why he thought he knew me, and why he had called me freckles. Granted, my face is covered in them. They’re all pretty tiny, aside from a couple here and there, and they’re dusted across my cheeks, over my nose, and on my forehead.

  Geoffrey had glared at him, clearly annoyed by his blunt question, but Reeve made up for it.

  “I’m Reeve,” he said, making his way toward me with an extended hand. “My man adores you. Every time you come in here, he tells me about you. Apparently, your love of art makes you kindred spirits. Honestly, you’re a godsend! I don’t appreciate all this as much as he does,” he went on to say, waving his hand around the gallery. “He could use a friend like you. In fact—you should come out with us tonight. Baby, wouldn’t that be nice?”

  Geoffrey came up to us, resting a hand on the small of Reeve’s back as he looked at me with apologetic eyes. “You don’t have to. I’m sure you’d rather spend your Thursday night out with friends your age.”

  I smiled at the two of them—noting that while Geoff insisted I didn’t have to come, he, too, had hope in his eyes. “I don’t really have friends my age. I would love to come out with you.”

  “You hear that, baby? Freckles would love to come out with us,” Reeve gushed before pressing a quick kiss to Geoff’s cheek.

  “Her name is Teddy,” Geoff corrected.

  Reeve lifted an eyebrow at me. “Teddy?”

  “It’s short for Theodora,” I explained.

  “I love that,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Theodora, I’ll see you tonight. Baby, my work here is done. Have to run. Sext me.”

  God, they were so in love back then.

  I look at Geoffrey now, his large, sculpted form taking up half of my bed. He looks more like himself like this, his heartache forgotten in his dream state. I say a little prayer for him, hoping that his broken heart would be mended soon—that the pain he feels will not rip away the parts of him that make him wonderful; that the memory of Reeve will not darken his spirit; and that he would come alive again, so that he may share his love with someone who truly deserves it.

  When I reach over to brush a strand of hair off of his forehead, his eyes open, looking straight into mine.

  “Are you watching me sleep?” he asks, his voice gruff from slumber.

  “Maybe,” I admit with a small smile.

  “Creep.”

  I giggle, pushing myself upright. My messy hair falls over my shoulder and down my chest, and I sweep it behind my ears. “I was actually thinking. We need to get you out today. No beer, no ice cream, just some fresh air and sunshine. Let’s go on a hike up Horsetooth.”

  “You’re not going to let me say no, are you?”

  I flash him my cheesiest grin as I shake my head and scurry out of bed. Standing in front of my dresser, I grab a hair tie and use my vanity mirror to ensure my ponytail is straight.

  “Maybe I should get a tattoo,” he says, halting all of my movement.

  I stare at his reflection with a frown. His gaze is trained on my back. I know with the tank top I’m wearing, most of my back piece is covered. I turn to face him, glancing over my shoulder to see my own reflection. The little black birds in flight are scattered from the middle of my back to my right shoulder blade.

  “You don’t want a tattoo,” I tell him. “You’ve told me, repeatedly, that you’d never ink your pure canvas,” I say, propping my fists on my hips.

  “Maybe it would help dull the pain. It did for you, didn’t it?”

  I shake my head at him, combating my frustration. He doesn’t mean any harm. His words don’t come from a clearheaded perspective.

  “My ink is not about Justin, and you know it. I get it that your heart is broken, that you’re looking for any distraction that’ll help you get through just another day, but doing something you swore you never would isn’t the answer.

  “Look,” I begin with a sigh, crawling back into bed. “Every piece of art on my body is about me. Justin broke more than my heart, Geoff. He took my body. He stole my peace of mind.” I shake my head, trying to find my words. “My tattoos are my battle scares, my victory marks. I needed to take ownership of what was always supposed to be mine.

  “You’re different. This is different. Reeve broke your heart, and I get that. I really do. But you’re still you, babe.” I reach out and cup my hands around his cheeks. “Today, we’re going for a hike. When you’re over Reeve, when you’ve moved on, if you still want a tattoo, you know I’ll be right there—holding your hand. But I risk loosing my best friend if I let you do something that crazy and spontaneous. One day, you’d wake up and hate me for not making you see reason.” He chuckles, knowing I’m right. I smile at him before kissing his lips. “Besides, Generation Ink is closed on Sundays. There is no way I’d let anyone but Trevor touch you. So enough of that. Get your ass up,” I demand, smacking his backside. “I’ll go make us some coffee.”

  Cierra.

  Fuck!

  I’m pulled from my sleep by the glorious sensation of a hot, wet tongue licking my balls. She sucks one deep into her mouth before moving on to the other. When she tastes the pre-cum on the head of my dick with a hum of satisfaction, I trap my bottom lip between my teeth, willing myself to be still for just another moment. I look down at her, her face hidden by her generous amount
of wildly curly hair, her gorgeous, brown body curled between my legs.

  Cierra.

  I keep her number for this exact reason.

  She always wakes up hungry for more.

  When she takes me into her mouth, my eyes droop closed. I tuck one hand behind my head, reaching to tangle my fingers in her hair with the other. Now fully aware that I’m awake, she sucks me harder, taking me deeper. A moan crawls its way out of the back of my throat as my head hits the back of hers.

  “Good god, Cierra—fuck, just like that.”

  She touches me with her hands, her fingers grazing the skin of my inner thigh, tracing the muscled curve of my hips. I don’t know how the fuck she does it, but she makes the seemingly insignificant touch feel so damn good. When I feel my balls start to tighten, my grip tightens in her hair as my need for control takes over. I thrust my hips, pumping my dick in and out of her mouth with purpose. I clench my jaw and groan when I swell just before spilling my release into her mouth.

  After I let her go, she looks up and smirks at me before climbing out of bed. The bitch doesn’t swallow. Sometimes, I don’t know why I put up with that shit—but when I look down at my sated dick, I accept the fact that it could be worse.

  She returns from the bathroom a minute later, straddling my waist. Knowing good and well that I’m a fair and generous lover, she doesn’t hesitate when I tap my finger against my mouth. With a giggle, she crawls up my body, spreading her legs on either side of my head. I know before I even part my lips that her pussy is soaked with her arousal. I can smell it.

  I fuck her good and rough—licking, sucking, and biting until she’s a trembling mess above me. When I whisper my permission for her to come, she cries out immediately, screaming my name as I devour her release. She’s not the best I’ve ever tasted, but I won’t complain.

  She flops onto her back beside me as she works to catch her breath, her feet at my shoulder and her head near my ankles. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

  I chuckle, looking down at her. “I aim to please.”

  She hums a laugh before propping herself up on her elbows. “What are you doing today? I’m free if you just want to stay naked and have sex.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her, silently expressing that she should know better. “I’m a busy man, Cierra. I can’t entertain you all day. In fact, I should probably get up.” I look to the clock on my nightstand and see that it’s almost nine. “It’s getting late.”

  “Ah, I see. This is the part where you kick me out.”

  “I’m not, nor will I ever, kick you out of my home,” I say, stepping out of bed. I pick up the scrap of fabric she calls a dress from the floor and toss it on the bed. I then lean down over her, my lips a breath away from hers. “But you aren’t staying, either.” I press my mouth against hers in a fast, hard kiss before heading for the bathroom. I take a piss and brush my teeth. By the time I return, she’s gone.

  The fact that she left without a goodbye means she’s probably pissed, but I’m not worried about it. She knows the drill. Perhaps she thought today would be the day she inched her way closer to something less casual between us. Some women are idealistic fools, thinking that somehow sex can eventually evolve into something akin to romance, which would ultimately grow into love.

  Love.

  I know first hand that love is overrated.

  Though, to fuck—to fuck is divine.

  I strip the bed of last night’s sheets and put on a fresh pair before donning my gym shorts and tennis shoes. I then make my way down to the basement, which houses my fully furnished at-home gym. I flip on the large, flat screen television, positioned so I can see it from almost anywhere in the open space—either dead on, or in the reflection of the floor to ceiling mirrors around the room—and then I grab a bottle of water and a towel. ESPN plays in the background for the next hour as I exercise, trying my muscles until I’m sufficiently worn out.

  I take a quick shower, dress in a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt, leaving it untucked, and then head to the kitchen. I’m not in the mood to cook, my mind already drifting toward my current design project, so I grab a protein bar and a piece of fruit to take to my office. Before I power up my computer and dive into work, I decide to call my brother.

  “Hey,” he answers softly on the fourth ring. “Hold on a minute, okay?”

  “Okay,” I mutter suspiciously. I can’t understand why he would be whispering to me right now.

  “Sorry about that. What’s up?”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?” I ask, leaning back in my desk chair, propping my ankle on my knee.

  “No. No—I’m not alone. She’s still sleeping and—”

  A grin spreads across my face as I fight to stifle a chuckle. “Why, Benjamin, do you mean to tell me you have a woman in your bed?”

  “Don’t be an ass,” he says with a laugh. “Yes. There’s a woman in my bed. And before you get crass, no, I did not have sex with her.”

  I sigh, a little disappointed but not at all surprised. Ben has always been the kind of guy who takes things slow, saving sex for when he feels it’s right. He’s a fool who falls in love. In spite of the multiple relationships that have fallen apart since he started dating as an adolescent, he still maintains that there is one woman out there whose heart belongs to him. My brother is a romantic. A fool—but my brother, just the same. I love him, regardless.

  “So, you stayed up all night talking?”

  “We went out for dinner, she came over for a few drinks, it got late, I invited her to stay. I don’t know if you are aware of this, but sometimes it’s fun to stay up all night laughing and getting to know a woman without complicating things by getting naked.”

  “Trust me—my sexual encounters are not complicated.”

  “Right,” he says with a sigh. “I know you didn’t call me to talk about this. So, what’s up?”

  “Well, it’s been a few weeks since we’ve gotten together. Aunt Eddalyn wanted to try and arrange a game of golf. Maybe you could come up for a day.”

  “Yeah. Sure—that sounds great. I’ll have to double check my schedule, but I actually think I might be free next weekend.”

  “Take a look. Let me know. Maybe after we golf, you can take me to dinner—tell me about this woman you spent all night talking to.”

  “All right, asshole. I’ll get back to you by tomorrow,” he says, amusement coloring his tone.

  “Sounds good.”

  “She’s up. I have to go.”

  “Say no more.”

  “Bye, Jude.”

  “Bye.”

  I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at it for a moment, shaking my head at my brother. For his sake, I hope his never ending quest to find the woman of his dreams works out. I, for one, don’t believe in such fairy tales. Love breeds pain. Lies. Betrayal. I never intend to walk down that road again.

  Monday morning sneaks up on me, but I welcome it just the same. After the work I put in yesterday afternoon, I’m ready to meet with my team, connect with our client, and set things in motion. This project has been a bit of a challenge, a characteristic I usually welcome. However, in this case, the issue is the client. He’s a real pain in my ass. He’s both picky and cheap, a combination of things I could live with if his personality wasn’t so horrendous.

  I discard my dislike for the man as I finish my early morning workout and go about preparing for the day. After a quick breakfast, a long shower, and a shave, I head to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. It’s just finished brewing when I hear the front door open and close. I note the time, seven o’clock on the dot, and a small smile curls my lips when I hear her footfalls as she makes her way up the stairs.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jude.”

  “Good morning, Marta,” I say, dipping my head in greeting.

  “You know I coming, Mr. Jude, and no pants?” she mutters, shaking her head at me as she sets her things on the floor beside the dining room table.

  I chuckle, ta
king a sip of my coffee as I make my way to the stairs. “I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

  I pause, turning to face her once more. She’s a heavy set woman with long, dark hair she always pulls back into a braid. Her accent is thick, constantly making me regret having never taken Spanish, and her countenance makes her one of the only women in my life that I like having around for reasons other than sex.

  Well—her countenance and her excellent level of housekeeping.

  “Marta, how was your weekend?”

  “Very good. My Clara turned fifteen. We had very big party.”

  “Send my best wishes to the birthday girl,” I say, lifting my mug in cheers.

  “And your weekend?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow at me.

  A lopsided grin tugs on my lips, knowing exactly what she means by her question. “I already stripped the sheets, Marta. They just need to be washed.”

  “One pair?” She folds her arms across her chest as she waits for my answer.

  “Two,” I mutter, turning my back as I continue toward the stairs.

  “Dios! Un día—one day, Mr. Jude, Mrs. St. Michaels will be the only woman in your bed, no?”

  I bite back my laugher, amused that the mother in her is constantly seeking to correct me, and touched that she feels bold enough to speak her thoughts aloud. “Unlikely, Marta,” I say, descending the steps. “Very unlikely.”

  She mutters something in Spanish that I do not understand as I make my way to my bedroom and then into my closet. With the forecast projecting a high of ninety degrees today, I opt for a two-piece, light grey suit, pairing it with a white shirt and a cream colored neck tie. I match my belt with my shoes, slip on my watch, pocket my billfold and my phone, and then grab the remains of my coffee before heading back to the kitchen. Marta is already working on the floors, so she instructs me to leave my mug on the counter before she shoos me away.

  Happy to do as she says, I bid her farewell and head for the garage. I’m in my Porsche and on the road without delay, arriving at the office only fifteen minutes later. I’m the first of our eight-man team to arrive, just the way I like it. The others will trickle in slowly, everyone accounted for by nine a.m. I’d wager a guess that either Rick, our resident architect, or Logan, one of our senior design associates, will be in next. Aunt Eddalyn usually comes in right at eight thirty, and Kent, our business affairs manager, soon after. Kim and Miranda are always here at least ten minutes before the top of the hour, and Brittany—she won’t arrive a second before eight-fifty-nine.